They sat in the after-silence, which was different—softer, like the echo of a bell. Yuna lowered the camera and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You came,” she said, not turning around.

“For the past year,” Yuna said, “I’ve been documenting empty spaces. Rooms where important things ended. I call the series ‘The Silence After.’ I’ve photographed abandoned hospitals, demolished theaters, the lobby of a love hotel that closed down.”

He sat. She sat across from him, cross-legged, the way she always had during their long, lazy Sunday mornings. For a moment, it felt like no time had passed. Then she reached under the cushion and pulled out a worn, red notebook.

“For luck,” he said. “On your next thing.”

Yuna finally turned, holding two cups. Her eyes were the same deep brown, but there was a new sharpness in them. She set the cups down on the low table and gestured to the sofa. “Sit. I’ll show you in a minute.”

“Read the last scene,” she interrupted softly. “Page forty-two.”